


The Blessed

by justwanderingneverlost



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Appalachian Gothic, F/M, Faith Healers, Not Religion Friendly, Religious Content, Religious Themes, Southern Gothic AU, Spooky, angels and demons mentioned, halloween ish??, just good creepy fun for spooky season, no harm or judgement meant towards anyone or their religious beliefs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27229858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwanderingneverlost/pseuds/justwanderingneverlost
Summary: It is known the hills hold their secrets. The lore only whispered and murmured among those who live in its hollows. Never for a stranger's ear. Secrets passed down from generation to generation. Kept safe within the mountains’ sheltering heights.But sometimes, secrets escape.There are those the secrets claim who’ve been found worthy of gifts from their god. Blessed, some say. Conjurers. Healers. One must have faith when they seek the Blessed. Believe in their gifts and those who bestowed them. Some can stop blood’s flow. Purchase your pain for a few coins. Speak the fire from your skin. Pull those wandering too close to Death's door back to the land of the living.The Blessed are praised and protected by folks far and near, but there are some who fear their gifts. Curse them. Believe them fallen angels and demons come to corrupt. Their faith is weak. They have been given over to fear and bitterness. Afraid of what they do not understand. Driven to destroy it.For them there is no salvation.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 56
Kudos: 101





	The Blessed

**Author's Note:**

> BOO! Spooky season is upon us and for once I'm contributing more than some moodboards lol. If you follow me on tumblr you might have seen the Southern Gothic board I made last Halloween. Well, I reblogged it the other day and my muse gave me a swift kick and demanded we write something to go with it. This is what we came up with. Some of you know my roots are in Appalachia and while I still love so many things about the place I call home, there was some weird goings on going on, if you know what I mean. Let's just say the aesthetic.... there's some truth to it.
> 
> There"s a heavy dose of religious elements in this, it's hard to do Southern Gothic without it, in fact I would say it can't be done, BUT please know I mean no harm and I'm not throwing judgement at anyone's beliefs. Hell, the vast majority of my family fits the aesthetic lol. This was just done for some creepy fun. It's a good bit different than my usual so I hope you enjoy it. And it's unbetaed, so any mistakes are mine. <3 JW

  
  
_ There came angels from the east bearing fire and ice. In the name of R’hllor, _

_ The Lord of Light,  _

_ The Red God of Flame and Shadow, _

_ they shall heal the sick _

_ and bring forth the flames to cleanse the land. _

_ Repent and save yourselves or flee the fire. _

It is known the hills hold their secrets. The lore only whispered and murmured among those who live in its hollows. Never for a stranger's ear. Secrets passed down from generation to generation. Kept safe within the mountains’ sheltering heights. 

But sometimes, secrets escape. 

There are those the secrets claim who’ve been found worthy of gifts from their god. Blessed, some say. Conjurers. Healers. One must have faith when they seek the Blessed. Believe in their gifts and those who bestowed them. Some can stop blood’s flow. Purchase your pain for a few coins. Speak the fire from your skin. Pull those wandering too close to Death's door back to the land of the living.

The Blessed are praised and protected by folks far and near, but there are some who fear their gifts. Curse them. Believe them fallen angels and demons come to corrupt. Their faith is weak. They have been given over to fear and bitterness. Afraid of what they do not understand. Driven to destroy it. 

For them there is no salvation. 

  
  


—

  
  


“Tell us the story, Mama.”

“Which story is that, my sweet?”

“The one about the angels.”

“Yeah. The angels of ice and fire.”

She frowned at her little ones. “That's an awful scary tale before bedtime.”

“Please, Mama! It's almost Halloween, you're supposed to tell the scary ones!”

“Yeah, please!! We won't be scared. We promise.”

She eyed them with a doubtful smirk, her gaze wandering over to the doorway where their father lingered, hiding, watching just out of the lamp’s glow, his soft smile a light in the darkness he stood in. He winked at her and she smiled at him before turning back to their beautiful babies. 

“Alright, if you insist, but I did warn you,” she cautioned as she pulled the quilt up to their little noses. 

As her children giggled and squirmed, she stood from their bed and settled herself in the rocking chair by the window. The old wood creaked as it took her weight. The rhythmic rocking started soon after for she could never keep still when she told their story. 

Her story. His story. 

She gripped the arms of the chair. Watched the dead leaves shiver in the autumn wind on their branches nearly bare. The moonlight a silver spill over the mountain beyond. So much like that last night long ago. 

His cool hands slipped over her shoulders and she clasped one of them tight in hers and let the words run free.

_ All over the hills there are tales of devils and demons. Ghosts and goblins. Haints and spooks. And some things no one will speak of. Places no one is brave enough to step foot in for fear something will follow them home. Or never let them leave. The land is cursed, they say. Broken buildings scorched black, the ground barren. Nothing green grows, and even the creatures steer clear. At night, if you dare drive by you’ll hear them.  _

_ The screams.  _

_ Terrible things that sink into your bones. Freeze your heart solid in your throat. Snatch the last breath from your lungs.  _

_ Some say it's just foxes crying out. Or screech owls. Mountain cats. But that's only because they know the truth and fear to speak it. No animal makes such sounds. For all their goodness, they have no souls. They don't need them. For they are sinless. _

_ No, the screams come from the souls who’ve met their god and were found wanting. Souls in eternal torment.  _

_ King’s Mountain is one such place. A place the Lord once shone his light upon. _

_ No one knew where the couple came from. The rumors in town said somewhere east. East of where they couldn't say. Most never even learned their names. Those that did have forgotten them.  _

_ Some said she was an angel. Her silver hair bright as new fallen snow in the sun. Soft and sweet and always smiling. Not like her husband. He was said to be dark. Maybe a demon, some claimed. Eyes grey as old coal dust. Hair black as a raven's wing. He was quiet. Wasn't much for smiling. But gentle all the same. Even those who called him demon declared he loved his beautiful bride more than any woman had ever been loved.  _

_ As most people did in those parts, they kept to themselves. Only ventured from their little house on the mountain he'd built her for the monthly church meetings, then disappeared for another moon. No one ever saw them in town. Nor on the roads. They had no family. Except those they claimed who laid in the church yard, their gravestones so old the names had long since been leached away by the soft moss and lichen that covered the weathered stones. But they never bothered a soul so everyone let them be.  _

_ Until that first Sunday morning in January came. It was bitterly cold that day. Snow crisp on the ground. The air heavy and grey and wet, hanging low, hiding the mountain peaks in a thick and dreary blanket. The preacher had the wood stove burning inside the old church to keep his congregation warm through his sermon. A stack of split oak beside it to last the day long. Those closest wiped sweat from their brows with stark white handkerchiefs as they murmured their ‘amens’ or sang their hymns. The rest huddled up to their family on the hard wooden pews, well loved quilts laid over their laps.  _

_ The Tarly’s sat near the back. Their thin quilt threadbare and useless against the cold that crept up through the floorboards beneath their feet. Their boy, Little Sam, they called him, he slipped loose from his mama right in the middle of Nothing But The Blood.  _

_ His daddy tried to catch him. He wasn't quick enough.  _

_ The boy’s scream split the air, his little hands pressed to the scalding black iron stove.  _

_ All the singing stopped. _

_ They rushed him out, shouts and prayers following them. Finding a ride to get him to the doc across the mountain most thought. Only a few noticed the angel and her demon slipping out behind them, but near everyone heard the moment the pitiful screaming came to a sudden end.  _

_ The congregation fell silent. The front doors creaked open and closed. Hurried footsteps crossed the vestibule and there stood the Tarly's. Little Sam in his mother's arms. His tears were gone. He held his tiny hands out for all to see. To the wonder of all they were healed. Pink and pudgy, no burns or blisters to be found. _

_ “They did it,” Sam cried. “They healed my little boy. Talked the fire right out of him!”  _

_ Gilly Tarly laughed through her tears as she kissed and hugged her boy proclaiming the angel was indeed an angel and her demon was no demon at all.  _

_ Everyone made their way outside to thank them, to praise the gods for their gift.  _

_ But the angel and her demon were nowhere to be found. Only a white wolf lurked at the edge of the trees. A cawing crow on the branch above him.  _

_ No one saw them for weeks. The talk dwindled. Most forgot. Some didn't. Winter’s grip loosened. It was time to plow the fields, ready them for planting. Tractors rumbled. Harrows cut the rich black earth.  _

_ And ole man Davos.  _

_ He fell off his tractor. Stroke they thought. But it was the harrow that tried to claim him. No one could stop the bleeding. He’d never make it over the mountain. This one asked if maybe the angel and her demon could heal him. That one made the frantic drive up the mountain.  _

_ They came without question. And ole man Davos lived. _

_ Spring gave way to summer and many visits were made to the young couple up the mountain. For a sickly child, or an injured father. A mother grieving her barren womb.  _

_ The angel knew how to help them all. To heal them. _

_ Together though, laid their greatest gift. They could talk the fire out. Lay their hands over charred and blistered skin. The wife taking the fire for her own, while her husband cooled the flames with his icy touch and breath. Both soothing the pain as they spoke their prayer again and again until the sufferer suffered no more. _

**_Lord cast your light upon us._ **

**_Find us worthy to wield your power._ **

**_Have mercy on the faithful._ **

**_Allow them to embrace the ice and flee the fire._ **

**_In the name of R’hllor, we heal thee._ **

**_Embrace the ice, flee the fire._ **

**_Embrace the ice, flee the fire._ **

**_Embrace the ice, flee the fire._ **

**_In the name of R’hllor._ **

**_Embrace the ice. Flee the fire._ **

_ And so it went all summer. The fields grew fat and plentiful. Children laughed, healthy and strong. Pain and death abandoned the hills thanks to their blessed and beloved angels. All were joyous… _

_ Save one.  _

_ Miss Lannister had never been a sunny soul. Born bitter straight from her sweet mama's womb. She had everything a woman might desire. The finest house on the square, filled with the finest things her father's money could buy. A handsome adoring husband and three beautiful children. All golden as the sun. But no matter her blessings, her heart was black. There was no joy to be found within it.  _

_ Town’s folk pitied her husband and children. Shook their heads and whispered behind hands whenever they walked by. “Such a shame. Such sweet souls to be chained to such bitterness.”  _

_ No one knocked on Miss Lannister's door for friendly visits. No one smiled or passed on pleastries when she came in the store. And when her children began falling ill, no one prayed to their gods to give her strength or peace to endure the trial. Instead they whispered she’d brought their sickness on herself. Her sins had found her out and the gods were delivering their punishment. _

_ The doctors over the mountain offered no answers despite the weeks they spent hovering over the children as they wasted away in their beds. They washed their hands of them. Told their parents there was no hope. They were very sorry, but the children would die. _

_ Only their mother knew why.  _

_ Only she cooked their meals. Only she took the trays of food to their rooms. Only she stayed to spoon the thick broth into their mouths while her husband weeped his prayers on his knees across the hall.  _

_ She had denied him again and again when he begged her to call the couple up the mountain. The Blessed ones. She scorned him for believing such nonsense. Called him a fool. If the doctors hadn't healed their children, no witch and her demon would either.  _

_ But he would not bow to her, nor give up hope, and while she slept he took himself up the mountain and pleaded the Blessed to save his children.  _

_ In the dark of night they came, and the father barred the door, locking them inside with the children and the mother out. Tirelessly, they prayed over his sons and daughter, drawing on all their gifts and pleading to their god to heal them, to free them from the grip of their sickness. Hours and hours ticked by until they themselves grew weak and wasted from the strain.  _

_ Yet still the children remained in the clutches of Death.  _

_ Never had they failed and the angel weeped in her husband's arms. _

_ “What claims them is not sickness, but an evil darkness,” he whispered to her as the terrible truth sank into his heart. _

_ His bride lifted her head, a storm brewing in her violet eyes. “Who would dare harm children?” _

_ Her husband shook his head. “The answer is too terrible to speak.” _

_ With heavy hearts they brought Mr. Lannister in, whispered the truth in his ear, and stayed by his side until slowly, one by one, Death claimed his children.  _

_ The couple fled up the mountain at his behest. But his grief was so great he lost himself to it. He woke his wife. Told her he knew her gastly sins, knew the monster she had become. Then he took his pistol in his hand and placed it to his head and pulled the trigger.  _

_ Miss Lannister buried her family three days later. The entire town save two standing in the cold, soaking rain to watch the four pristine caskets lowered into the red clay forever more.  _

_ The whispers began not an hour later. Her home filled with people, every surface over ladened with food, Miss Lannister tugged on any ear that would listen and poured in her sad tale. “He believed in them,” she whimpered. “And I trusted my husband to know what was right. And now they're all gone. They took them from me,” she declared, distraught, and promptly fell into wracking sobs. _

_ She had everyone in that house believing their angels were actually evil. Cried it loud for all to hear. They were murdering thieves come to steal all the children. They had played them all for fools. Lured them into false beliefs. When the truth was right before their eyes: the wife was a witch. The husband her demon lover. _

_ He was no demon, but he was her lover.  _

_ Love was all that held him to her. An undying flame that burned bright between them. He knew there was only goodness within his beloved bride. An unfailing want to help others. A heart so tender his need to protect her had no end. _

_ To keep her safe, he insisted they stay to themselves. Only answering the door for a few trusted souls. At night, after he’d seen her to sleep, he would sit up on their porch, a gun across his lap, the white wolf at his side. The crow perched on the eaves.  _

_ He was waiting.  _

_ They would come. They always did.  _

_ Eventually.  _

_ For he and his bride were Blessed, but also cursed. _

_ He knew Death would come calling again, and again, as it had done before. That his flesh would know the sinking of sharp steel once more. That fear and hate would drain away his life’s blood. His last moments filled with his beloved’s screams.  _

_ For she did not know, and for him that was the cruelest curse of all. She was left unaware of what lurked in the shadows, ready to slaughter them. Left to watch her love’s life ripped away. Left to live the terror over and over as they set her to flame.  _

_ R’hllor declared it the only way. Only such grief and rage would bring her fire forth. And her fire was his sword. His judgement to cast upon the wretched sinners. His cleansing of the land. _

_ And his wrath drew nigh.  _

_ The autumn night was crisp and cold when they finally came up the mountain. The moon fat and bright in the black sky. Their guns and knives and torches were held high. Their voices hateful and harsh. Their faith was gone, dashed upon false fears. Only anger was left. Anger and blind righteousness. _

_ He stood, cocked his gun and held it to his eye. The wolf at his side bared his sharp white teeth. The crow cawed and snapped his beak. “Flee the fire. Flee the fire. Ice and fire.” _

_ His stand would be futile. He knew. But he also knew he didn't have it in him to surrender. His every fiber demanded he protect her. The ashes of hopelessness and bitterness sat heavy in his mouth, his heart pounding out its final beats in defiance of death. But he would not succumb. He would fight until the last moment. For her.  _

_ She woke just as they reached the yard. Called out to him, her voice edged with fear. He wanted to tell her to run. To run and never look back. But he had done that once in foolish hope and she had paid an even steeper price.  _

_ “Stay inside, beloved,” he begged her. “Lock the door and don't look.” _

_ She wouldn't, she never did, but he had to try.  _

_ The wolf lunged as the first of the devils reached the steps. He aimed and pulled the trigger at another. Two lay dead and still they came. Crying out their hate as her screams split the air behind him. One more went down from the butt of his gun, but another ripped it from his grasp.  _

_ He never felt the first blade. Only her desperate hands at his back, pulling him to her. He whispered his love for her as the second was buried in his stomach. Felt her tears of grief fall over his face at the third. Heard her cries of terror as they tore her away and sunk the forth deep. Saw the rage light her eyes as the last struck his heart. _

_ Then all was black and cold. _

_ Death claimed her husband and vengeance claimed her.  _

_ It grew inside of her, the grief and rage a violent swirling summer storm. Built higher and higher when they ripped her from her love. When they locked her in. When the glass shattered and their torches crashed through the windows, their voices crying out for her to burn.  _

_ “Burn, witch, burn! Go back to your devil! Back to the hell you came from!” _

_ The fire spread. Drawing closer and closer. Stalking her. Crackling and hot as it crawled and climbed across the floors and up the walls. A living, breathing wraith. Its choking smoke, dark rolling waves over the ceiling. But she did not fear it. She had dreamed of its flames many times before. Its scorching heat. The fire sang to her. A song of vengeance. Its sweet melody reminding her she had her own fire to wield. And wield it she would. And with it she would see them all die screaming for taking her love from her.  _

_ And scream they did.  _

_ She rose from the burning house and they screamed. As she walked slowly through the flames and out the door. They screamed. As her arms lifted and the fire followed her command. They screamed. As it licked at their skin. _

_ They screamed. _

_ And they ran, fleeing the flames, their screams never ceasing. But they would find no refuge. No mercy. No salvation. They had revealed their true nature. Their black hearts. And she would snuff them out one by one. For her love. For her god. For herself. _

_ Down the mountain, through the town, and to the river she stalked them, burning all in her wake. She and the fire one, the flames at her command. While their flesh seared and blackened and sloughed away, while their blood boiled and turned to steam, she felt no pain. No remorse. Only justice.  _

_ And utter desolation. _

_ When the last scream died away, when all had burned, she walked into the river, tears streaming, and slowly let its cold waters lovingly embrace her. Sighed as its icy grip wrapped around her heart and took her breath. And in the black silence that surrounded her, she fell into bittersweet dreams and went in search of her love. _

_ He woke to the taste of smoke and ash. His lungs fighting for air, her screams still echoing in his ears. His heart once more beat, strong and stubborn, pounding at his ribs. He rose to his feet and took in the scorched and scoured earth in the dim light of dawn. _

_ It was a familiar sight. His wife and their god had once again exacted their vengeance upon the sinners and left nothing but smoking char and ruin in their wrathful wake.  _

_ Even if her path of destruction had not led the way, he knew where she would go. His feet could not carry him fast enough, the blackened earth crackling beneath them. He’d never been too late. He would not be too late. _

_ He made it to the river just as her pale head slipped beneath the rolling waters. They quickly carried her away but he would not let them take her. Death had not stopped him and neither would they. He dove into their icy depths. _

_ She gasped and struggled as he pulled her free of their grasp. Stared up at him, trembling hands mapping his chest, pressing over the rapid beat beneath. Her violet eyes were wide with disbelief. But only for a moment. Soon they wept great tears, and he gathered her up in his arms and walked her to the shore and wept with her. _

Gentle hands were at her face, wiping away her tears. He was there, her husband, her heart, her beloved, crouched before her. A tender smile was on his face, his eyes nearly as wet as her own. She gripped his wrist and glanced at their children. Their little heads were resting against one another, silver and raven curls twined together on their pillow. Their cheeks pink with slumber. Her heart clenched and she turned back to him. 

“How long have they been like that?” she whispered. 

He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Since summer came and all was happy and peaceful.” Relief washed through her as he pressed a kiss to her palm. “Shall we find our rest as well, beloved?” he asked.

She smiled softly and stroked his sweet face. Seven times their god had used them to enforce his will upon his people before he set them free from their torturous bonds. Not to a heaven of his making, but to one of their own. 

Their little house upon the mountain, built by her husband's hands. Their garden tended by hers. And their precious children loved with every fiber of their hearts. It was an eternity well earned and one she would never give up. Not for anyone, god, nor man. 

It would all be burned to ash and cinders if any thought to tear her from it. 

She leaned forward and kissed her angel of ice. The holder of her heart. “Tonight. And every night until the end of it all.”

“May it never come.”

“It will be left to flee my fire if it ever dares.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
